“That I was a sheep,” Jehan said with a quick grin.
Damedran’s face burned.
Jehan raised a hand. “Don’t fret. I wanted you to think that. I needed you to think that. But the time for lies and disguises is over.”
Damedran’s lips parted. He didn’t want to say I don’t understand again, though that was what he was thinking. It sounded, well, too sheep-like.
So what he did say was, “What disguises?”
“Zathdar the pirate being one. Besides the Fool your uncle really wanted me to be.”
“Zathdar?” Damedran squeaked. He’d thought he’d had enough shocks lately. Not true, obviously. “You? But—” His mind flitted from memory to memory, then formed a question in the way that best fit his experience. “I can see how you can ride like that. Leaping horses. They do that in the west, at their academy, don’t they?”
“By the time you’re twelve. With your hands tied, by the time you’re fifteen.”
Damedran whistled soundlessly. “But they don’t teach anything about the sea. I know they don’t. Do they?”
“You’re right,” Jehan said gravely.
“Yet you have to have learned something about the sea. I mean, all the stories about Zathdar. You know ships. How did that happen?”
“Not by design. Imagine me, sent away as a small boy to Marloven Hess’s military academy. Mathias thinks we need new ideas. Really, he wants to get me away from the corruption in our own academy, which, to attest to your uncle’s credit, was largely gone within ten years. My father wanted me to go for different reasons. So I went west, leaving behind everyone at home who I believed were living happy lives. The letters slowed down. Then came the bad news, like my mother and father parting. My mother invited me to move to Sartor with her, but I liked my life, so I stayed.”
Damedran nodded. He would have stayed too.
“Life there was good at first, but then it turned dangerous, when a good king was assassinated, and a very bad regent took his place. More news came. My father had married Princess Ananda. Not that that was bad, it just made my life seem unmoored. The old king died, and my father became king, and then the real bad news started coming.”
Damedran looked subdued, but he was listening.
“The morvende have access to certain kinds of magic that delays aging for a time. I used that while I tried to reassemble the pieces of my life, but the news just got worse. Princess Atanial vanished, along with the child I never met. So I took ship for a few years to consider what to do, and ended up as a privateer on the other side of the world. When my father summoned me home, I found myself constantly surrounded by your uncle’s men for my protection, but they wouldn’t let me go anywhere without permission. I put together Zathdar’s fleet to break your uncle’s increasing hold over the kingdom, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to do anything as Prince Jehan.”
Damedran frowned in perplexity.
Jehan wondered if he should let the boy have time to think, but it felt so good to tell the truth. “When you’re away and come back, you see differences not apparent to people at home who experienced the changes more gradually. Khanerenth is full of restrictive laws. Rumors. Strife. Killings. I dedicate my life to restoring things to the way I knew Prince Math would have wanted.”
Damedran flushed again. “So I’m the sheep. That’s what you mean. But you’re not saying it. I take orders and don’t think. It’s why Lesi Valleg hates me,” he added, looking like the miserable boy he really was.
“We both had to take orders and not think. Or not appear to think.” Jehan gestured, now exhilarated. Whatever happened next, he had told the truth. “The crisis came this summer when I discovered the rumors of invasion were a little too detailed to seem just rumor.”
Damedran’s chin jerked up. “You know about that?”
“I have suspected ever since my pirates intercepted a weapons shipment. Think, Damedran. Past the promise of glory, rank, and land. That invasion would break the treaty. People on both sides of the mountains will get killed. Those plains clans of Locan Jora are not going to let their land be overrun without a vicious fight. But I don’t think anyone can stand up to the king and Randart except Prince Mathias.”
“Prince Mathias? How? I don’t understand.”
“I have reason to believe that Sasharia knows where her father is, and is on her way to free him. We’re going as backup.”
“But you let her escape! Did she tell you all that?”
Jehan smiled. “No. She’s doing her valiant best to protect her father the only way she knows how. But you forget,” he said gently, indicating they mount up, “who my mother is. Though I did not move to Sartor’s morvende geliath with her, I never lost contact.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Valiant best.
That’s what he said, but I sure did not feel valiant.
Does anyone ever feel valiant—bold—intrepid—I am courageous, ha ha! Well, not Yours T, anyway. I felt sulky, depressed, angry and worried by turns. Not to mention hungry and tired, for though I had earned plenty of money, and had my jewels besides, there was nowhere to spend any of it.
My trail was the straightest line to Ivory Mountain, which is not an area boasting a lot of population. I saw why when I reached the hills below the mountain: narrow trails slanting steeply upward, past waterfalls and rushing whitewater streams hidden but recognizable from their roar.
Thick forest surrounded me, layers of complicated, deep green, leafy shrubs and trees. Sunlight penetrated in dapples and shafts of hazy gold. When the sunlight was strongest, sparkles of light danced on the water and gleamed in the pearl drops of moisture hanging from the edges of the leaves.
When the sun vanished, I found myself abruptly closed in uniformly greenish blue shadow, guided mostly by sounds rather than by vision: unseen birds, quick thrashings of animals dashing through the underbrush, and always the trickle, drip, roar, chuckle and hiss of water. I was soon hungry, but never did I go thirsty. The water tasted sweet and cold, and even my mare (who did have her feedbag, and I mentally thanked Jehan several times a day for that) seemed to perk up despite my rotten mood.
So it was a long, tiring slog, though beautiful. But I was in no mood for beauty, because the density of the forest meant I would not see any enemies until they were on me. Shelter was also difficult to find. I spent a couple of miserable nights with all my clothes on and my firebird tapestry banner round me as I crouched under mossy rock outcroppings never quite large enough to be a sheltering cave.
I was on the watch for the sign my father had told me about so many years ago—three bluebells in a row, carved into stone. I’d always thought this symbol would be clear, like some kind of natural road map. As I climbed ever higher, examining every rocky scree, cliff, palisade and what have you, I began to wonder if weather and age would have defaced the carvings. That is, if they weren’t overgrown by shrubs, trees or even moss.
But I kept going.
We all kept going, everyone converging on the mountain at pretty much the same time, though from different angles. Canardan’s force found the tracks of the women—mistook them for warriors—and sped up their pace.
Jehan knew a wood scavenger who knew where the lower cavern passages were. He and his riders made sure they left no signs behind.
Randart’s scouts, under threat of punishment, scarcely ate or slept until they discovered my tracks. Remember I said few live there? Randart didn’t know magic, but he was far from ignorant about history. Didn’t take long for him to figure that Ivory Mountain had to be my destination.
I was unaware of him on my trail until the last morning, when I woke from a miserable sleep to a misty-blue dawn so cold I could see my breath. Time to do my martial arts stretches and warm up a bit. But I forgot my morning routine when sounds echoed up the narrow valley below me.
I scrambled up, inched out onto a promontory and peered over a tumble of moss-covered stones. Down below on the trail snaked a long trail of armed me
n, blurred by a long grayish drift of mist, but the brown uniforms were frighteningly visible.
At their head, his dark hair and stony profile clear between dissipating wreaths of fog, was War Commander Randart.
Hunger, everything fled my mind. As Mom would say, It’s time to beat feet.
o0o
The Duke and Duchess of Frazhan rode out with Lord and Lady Kender to meet the women.
They met on a high bridge built over a cascading fall down the side of a mountain. The road had brought them within sight of Ivory Mountain, on the other side of the river valley. It was a beautiful sight with its white crown of snow even in summer, the highest peak shrouded in cloud.
Journey’s end.
Atanial straightened up as the ducal pair rode toward them. The duke and duchess were both quite old, white-haired, hard to read as aristocrats typically were. Lord Kender was a tall, lean, handsome man, but Atanial’s attention focused solely on his wife, a short, round woman with an intelligent dark gaze framed by wispy silver hair.
Like the ducal pair, Lady Starveas and her husband wore Colendi-style linen over robes, paneled up the sides, with ornamental long sleeves dagged back at an angle. Hers was pale mauve over violet; the duchess and her duke wore white over gray. Lord Kender was the most brightly dressed, his over-robe a rich green with stylized golden rye beards along the hem.
The duke’s voice was thin and reedy as he introduced them all.
“Your highness,” Lady Starveas said then, somehow making her bow graceful, though she sat on the back of a horse. It was clear that she intended to be the spokesperson.
Atanial copied the bow as best she could, hoping she wouldn’t fall out of the saddle. Her hips twinged; the flare of a hot flash burned through her chest, tingling outward to the backs of her hands. Her face broke out with moisture. “My lady.”
“We have heard word of your mission. We wish to hear the truth from your lips.”
Atanial cleared her dry throat and straightened up, resisting the impulse to wipe her sleeve over her hot face. She gave what by now had become a speech, a pattern of words she could utter without thinking, as she watched for reactions.
The four betrayed little during the speech, but at the end Lady Starveas said, “Thank you. For once rumor was not far wrong, then.”
Atanial ached, and itched with the clamminess that followed a hot flash. She longed for a bath and for an end to this endurance test. But the cause was right. Whatever happened.
“We have been granted time to consider.” Lady Starveas indicated the four of them with a graceful gesture. “For you must know that my family lands were taken by those who call themselves Locan Jorans now.”
Atanial dipped her head in the half nod, half bow she’d seen the aristocrats use to one another.
The duchess pulled from her inner sleeve a golden case. She held it up.
Atanial recognized it as a communications case, which sent messages instantaneously by magic. She swallowed tightly. Here it comes. The only surprise was that they had made it so long without discovery.
Lady Starveas had also retrieved her own case. “We waited only to hear the words from you. We have written letters to certain friends and will send them, with your permission.”
Now Atanial was surprised. She managed the half bow again, because she had no idea what to say. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple and into her ear. Ugh.
Lady Starveas smiled a little. “I cannot speak for everyone. There are some who will shut their eyes to violence in order to regain what they think was once theirs. My family . . .” She looked away at Ivory Mountain, crowned with snow. “We have morvende in our family. We know that land is land, it stays when we are gone. Our sense of permanence is imposed on land, it is not granted by any but other humans.”
Lord Kender stirred, and the lady sent him a fast look. Atanial wondered just how much fraught emotion lay behind those subtle reactions that she could so easily have missed.
A fly buzzed by her mount’s ear, causing the animal to twitch and bob. Atanial leaned forward to shoo the fly away and stroked the horse’s bony neck ridge. As she did, she surreptitiously wiped the side of her face on her shoulder.
“There is the matter of holding what we’d regain by violence,” Lady Starveas went on, as if Atanial had spoken.
Atanial then wondered if the lady was not talking to her at all.
“Some might look forward to years of fighting. I do not. I would rather regain at least some of our holdings by negotiation. I say all this because I believe if your husband, Prince Mathias Zhavalieshin, was to return, perhaps that negotiation would occur. Many of those over in Locan Jora who sit now in our old homes and work our land were loyal to the Zhavalieshins, who once came from that area. But the king is now Canardan Merindar.”
The duchess spoke for the first time. Her voice was thin and light as a bird’s. “We welcome you to the castle. We extend this invitation to you all. We’ve been preparing.”
Lady Starveas gave one of those slow, stylish nods in her direction, then turned to Atanial. It was very clear they’d planned things out. “But when you move on, we will not be going with you. Honor requires us to keep the oaths we made to Canardan, for he has not broken his oaths to us. Though, now speaking only for myself, my heart yearns for the return of Prince Math.”
The duke and duchess made the low bow of accord.
Atanial lifted her voice so the women crowded behind could hear. “I thank you on behalf of everyone here. We ask no more than that.”
They crossed the bridge and wound their way to the old castle whose towers were just visible beyond the lacy veil of the cascade.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ivory Mountain got its name from a white stone with peculiar properties, a stone that resembled frozen ice with melted silver mixed in, or so it’s been described. Those peculiar properties caused it to be nearly destroyed a few thousand years back or so. The morvende moved from the geliath (which is kind of like a cavern city a couple thousand years old), leaving it empty except for occasional retreats over the succession of centuries following.
That shows about how old the place was.
I galloped up the trail, branches whapping my face and the moisture-laden leaves dousing me with stinging-cold water. I was terrified that Randart and his gang would get me before I could find the access-way, and my fear communicated to the mare, who moved her fastest.
Up and up, the mare’s head low to the trail, leaving me to watch the rocks at both sides lest I miss the triple-flower carving, which I was afraid had worn away.
I was wondering what to do if I reached the snowy mountain summit when at last my eyes were drawn to the symbol, weird as that sounds. I found out later, if you’re taught the access signals, part of the magic is that image and reality will find a way to match. I mean, we’re talking old, old magic.
In grateful relief I flung myself off the mare, who was sweating from the steady climb despite the bitter air, and fell to my knees, shaky fingers scrabbling at the smooth stone between a holly bush and a climbing of ivy that had mysteriously never grown over that portion of the stone.
I don’t even know what I did, but the entire face of the rock shimmered, and there before me was a narrow fissure reaching up about nine feet, scarcely five feet wide. Dark as it was inside, I figured moss and some spiders would be preferable to a close, personal interview with Randart—backed by a couple hundred buff men and women wearing lots of shiny, pointy things, and probably in bad moods from missing their morning coffee.
The mare sniffed, snorted, then followed me willingly enough. Right after her tail passed the edge of the shadow cast by the sun down the rock face, the shimmer abruptly vanished, leaving us in darkness.
I stood next to the horse, who sniffed some more and turned her head, shifting her weight from hoof to hoof. Thunk, thud. I rubbed my eyes, wondering what the heck to do next.
When I opened my eyes, my vision had adjusted. A faint glow emanate
d from the stone in a series of purple blossoms painted impossibly long ago. The glowing signals led down a tunnel.
I stayed on foot, not sure how high the ceiling was, leading the mare by the reins. The stone floor seemed firm and not slimy. Good sign, I told myself.
We wound slightly to the left, always downhill, judging from the pressure on my toes.
We entered a cavern lit by a glowglobe of a kind I had never seen. Most have steady, soft light, faintly bluish, though I understand the light comes from gathered sunlight, stored by magical means. I would swear this globe was spread spectrum, for the light was soft but remarkably clear, picking out glittering bits from the rock all around, showing carvings of vines twining up overhead, and the remains of a painted sky with stars. The soft dirt of the ground glittered with blue flakes, bits of paint that had fallen over the centuries.
Below the glowglobe’s niche was a trough with running water. I could hear it rushing down from somewhere above. The horse and I were thirsty.
I cupped my hands and dipped them. The water hurt, it was so cold, but it was clear and tasted good. The horse shouldered me aside and got a good long drink.
When we were done, I looked around. Several tunnels led off in various directions. I felt the faint ruffling of an air current from somewhere and almost instinctively turned in that direction.
Why not? Before I’d spent a couple days climbing the side of this mountain I’d thought it would be easy, like entering a big building. There’s your directory, you get into the elevator, and whoosh, there’s your suite. The vast size of this place was daunting. I kept trying to remember everything my father had told me when I was taught the magic, but all I could bring up was a vague sense of glowglobes, light, gleaming painted stars that looked real to my young eyes—and the spell.
So I followed the fresh-smelling, cool air current. I figured there had to be a hot spring somewhere down in the honeycomb of caverns, the air funneled upward. Anyway, I was grateful that I could see, that the tunnels were clean, no slime, no giant webs.